


Heal by Degrees

by lynndyre



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1467292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: </p>
<p>On one of the missions when they're split up, Porthos and Athos run into trouble, and have to patch each other up, without Aramis' surety or expertise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heal by Degrees

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to EveningBat for looking it over!

Athos doesn’t need to be unconscious to be stitched up, but the wine helps. He can guess at how much blood he’s lost by how quickly the sour little vintage is going to his head. 

The gap between sleeve and torso may be a necessity to allow freedom of movement, but just now Athos is considering sacrificing it for a clean stretch of leather that might have turned the thrust away, rather than the linen that had caught it, and allowed the gouge that now marks his side, just below the arm. It won’t stop bleeding, and the stretch required to lift his arm out of the way is enough to threaten to pull it wide again.

Porthos is careful with the needle, but neither of them are at their best. Athos grits his teeth, and takes another drink in the lull between stitches. Athos’s scarf was the first casualty of the blood, and his shirt has followed, already stained, now torn into long strips, the collar lace blotting away the blood that wells up even as Porthos draws the skin together.

They pause, while Porthos turns away, and Athos watches him swallow, clenched fist pressed to his stomach. Porthos has never liked sewing people up, but this, Athos suspects, has more to do with the blow to the back of his skull. 

Porthos breathes, and Athos drinks, and Porthos masters himself. And they continue.

“Athos? How did this happen?” Porthos’ voice is low. Confused. “Where is Aramis?”

Athos shuts his eyes, and takes another mouthful of wine. “In Paris. He’s fine. He wasn’t with us.”

Porthos’ hand shakes, and Athos grunts at the pull. A muffled apology, and Porthos presses tighter against the wound to staunch the fresh trickle Athos can feel. “Just two more. Athos- I can’t remember the mission. Can’t remember – Did somebody hit me?”

Athos nods, and doesn’t point out that Porthos asked the same thing a few minutes before, and a few minutes before that. Porthos’ memory will return. His skull is thick. 

Uncertainty is more sour than the wine, and Athos is cold.

The final stitch is tied off, and Porthos winds the remains of Athos’ shirt about his chest and shoulder, to keep the bandaging secure. He knots it twice, when the first threatens to slip free. 

Aramis will chide them both for this. Athos knows the dissatisfaction Aramis will voice over these stitches, close but uneven. Functional. Ugly. Athos likes the thought. He doesn’t have Aramis’ fondness for beautiful scarring – or for displays of such. Athos’ scars are personal. He doesn’t mind bearing Porthos’ handiwork, as well as Aramis’ seamstress-perfect lines. His brothers have the right to mark him.

With the stitching finished, Athos allows the tremors that have been threatening, shivering in the aftermath of pain and lost blood. Once begun, he cannot stop, and his hands shake until he sets the bottle away, and folds his arms in to his chest.

Porthos stands, almost falls. Athos reaches for him, feels the wound pull, but Porthos steadies himself and strips out of his shirt, draping it about Athos’ neck despite his protests, to fall, still warm, about his body.

Athos feeds his arms through the sleeves with ill grace, and lets Porthos help him back on with his jacket. The shirt smells like pain-sweat, though probably no worse than his own, had it survived. And it smells like Porthos, which, God help him, Athos finds comfort in. And he is warmer.

Porthos, now shirtless under his own jacket, smiles as Athos’ shivers abate. But he’s pale, under the natural brown of his skin, and Athos can see the confusion still, behind his eyes.

“Are we safe to sleep here?”

The bodies are all outside, and none had made it farther than the edge of the woods. They checked, before coming inside, for all that Porthos doesn’t remember it, or the strike that took him to the ground, but failed to stop him rising again when Athos needed him. The horses will keep until morning. Neither of them can ride, tonight.

“We’re safe.” He hasn’t the energy to retell it now. He’ll tell Aramis, when they get back. Tell them both, and only need to do it once.

“Come here. It’ll be warmer together.” Athos is not normally one for sleeping close, if there’s space to be had, but they both need the contact. The way Porthos moves to fold himself around Athos is confirmation enough, if any were needed. The last of Athos’ shivers evaporate against Porthos’ body.

Porthos’ head comes to rest on Athos’ good shoulder, and he makes a noise Athos refuses to call a whimper, of relief and pain and need. Athos blinks hard, and raises his hand to the back of Porthos’ skull, guiding it into the cradle of his shoulder and jaw.

“You’re alright?”

Athos nods, knowing Porthos will feel the motion. 

“Aramis?”

“He’s safe. He wasn’t here. Go to sleep.”

Porthos does, his arms holding Athos tight even in the absence of waking thought. Athos finds it harder, caught between exhaustion and worries he will not admit. The wine, foul though it is, is out of reach, and he will not wake Porthos trying to get it. In the end he shuts his eyes, and lets the pain of his heartbeat wash through him, with every pulse against his side. He falls asleep with fingertips caught in the tight curls of Porthos’ hair.

 

Athos wakes in the chill before dawn. There are birds singing, the kind Aramis would love. Or shoot. Another hour and it will be ravens, coming to inspect their work outside. Porthos is watching him, eyes smudged dark with pain, but gaze clear. Intent. Athos grunts an interrogative.

“There’s at least three fewer fleas in this mattress, and Aramis will be over us both with a comb when we get back.” His hand passes over Athos’ forehead, his cheek, his neck. “But you’re not fevered, at least.”

Athos frowns at the inspection and turns his face away, into Porthos’ shoulder. They’ve shifted, in the night, Porthos making a better pillow than the threadbare wreck on the bed. “How’s your head?”

“Still attached. Still the devil. Good enough.”

Athos snorts. His side is much the same, a dull, warm pain, still preferable to that of last night. It will worsen when they move. Athos isn’t inclined to move just yet.

When the first of the ravens begin to land, there is no one awake to disturb them, and nothing from the cabin but the faint sound of snoring.


End file.
